


this will be our year

by Aza (sazandorable)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, New Year's Fluff, Set in Episodes 180-181 | Upton Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:33:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28449237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sazandorable/pseuds/Aza
Summary: The end of the year after the end of the world.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, passing mention of implied Salesa->Martin
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21
Collections: End of Year Exchange 2020





	this will be our year

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZaliaChimera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/gifts).



> Happy new year, Zalia! Although it's been a hard one, I'm glad to have had you around for it at least. All the best wishes for the next! You're a star! Here's some soft boys being cute and as happy as possible.

On the third day (since they woke up), Martin distractedly looks out the window of the gallery and goes, “Huh!”

Jon doesn’t look up from his book immediately; not because he knows what that is about, but specifically because he does not. He closes his eyes and savours that feeling of not knowing for a few seconds, and it’s a little too late for a normal conversation when he finally asks: “What is it?”

Martin doesn’t appear to mind, though. Neither of them have ever been particularly good at normal conversations, even before Jon got supernatural powers and the apocalypse happened. He simply answers, in a tone of awe despite everything they’ve seen since the world changed: “It’s snowing.”

"You’re _joking_ ," Jon hears himself say, and delights in that, too, the genuine disbelief and shock, the absolute wonder of something he did not expect and does not know the truth of in his core. He scrambles to his wobbly feet, dizzy with excitement, and joins Martin at the great window to peer through it. He can feel the truth of the statement before he sees it, and it takes him a second to figure out why: cold emanates from the glass pane before he actually touches it, and a heavy silence reigns outside, all the birds gone quiet. Then he squints and shifts closer to the window, to adjust for the lighting difference, and sure enough, large flakes are gently drifting down from the dark sky, the lush garden slowly turning white.

That’s not going to be fun to wade through when they leave, Jon thinks for a second, the habits of a mundane lifetime taking over again, before it occurs to him that they’ve waded through much, much worse in the past weeks. He’s not even sure the weather still exists outside this bubble, anyway.

“Oooh,” says Mikaele Salesa, manoeuvring his large frame on the other side of Martin. “Just in time.”

Jon takes his little pause, like a piece of candy, before asking: “For what?”

Salesa’s large face lights up slowly. “New Year’s!” he announces, and laughs his great, booming laugh. “You boys had no idea, eh? Today is December 31st.”

“ _What_ ,” Martin blurts out. “Okay, _that_ makes no sense, time’s fake blah blah blah but there’s _no way_ it’s been the apocalypse for over two months already.”

Jon’s stomach lurches a little, as he stutter-trips over the opposite feeling — that it’s hard to believe it’s _only_ been two months and he expected a lot more; that the world outside of here is so natural and right, to him, that it feels like it’s been that way forever. That he could have believed that it had been fourteen months, by now. Or another twelve more. He does not ask what the year is.

Martin mumbles some more in obstination, and yet, it continues to snow steadily through his disbelief. It’s refreshing, to see the world go its own way without responding to how they feel about it.

Later that evening, Annabelle emerges into the gallery lounge wearing a beautiful lace dress and carrying four champagne flutes and gorgeous dainty hors-d’oeuvres on a silver tray. The corners of her eyes crinkle when Jon once more refuses to touch the food, but he takes a glass, just to clink it with Martin’s.

“Well then,” he murmurs. “Happy New Year?”

“It’s not midnight yet,” Martin points out, smiling. It tugs at Jon’s heart, that smile. It’s simple, uncomplicated; nothing deep behind it, no bitter afterthought, no guilt for feeling happiness in the middle of horror and suffering and the end of the world. Just the plain, uncomplicated small joy of holiday cheer and clearly codified social customs, without the background of the sky watching, the immense tower on the horizon or the constant sounds of pain and terror.

Annabelle leans on the piano with a grin, her teeth showing, bright. Her dress shimmers in the light of the crystal ceiling fixture, beads and sequins sewn onto the lace like glittering drops of morning dew on a spiderweb, but her grin is brighter. Salesa sighs dramatically but takes the hint and sits down on the bench. He takes his time, pretends to fuss with his nonexistent cufflinks before carefully rolling up his sleeves (even though his shirt is hanging wide open), until Annabelle rolls her eyes and Martin pitches in all sweetly: “Pleaaase, Mikaele,” because he noticed that Salesa tends to do what he asks if he uses his given name.

Salesa finally starts playing, something classical and gentle which Jon does not have the knowledge to identify, and Martin bites into a cream cheese canapé and Jon takes a sip of his champagne, and they could be at just another work party at the Institute.

Except, of course, for a significant difference: Martin’s free hand is holding the fingertips of Jon’s free hand, and when he has finished his snack he draws Jon into a slow dance in the wide free space in the middle of the gallery. It is all quite terrible, as Jon is not any good at dancing and furthermore slightly tipsy, and yet it is wonderful, Martin’s hand warm around his waist. Martin laughs, that easy laughter free of the weight of the end of the world, and when Jon leans in to kiss his soft mouth, Martin leans in too to meet him — even as he protests, “Not midnight yet! Not midnight yet!” — because it’s fine, they can just kiss again at midnight, and again later in the fresh new year, and again, and again, and again.


End file.
